


The Quiet In Between

by Unspeakable Crow (RavennaStormblade)



Series: It's the little things [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bit confusing, Feelings, M/M, No Dialogue, Non-Linear Narrative, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6779824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavennaStormblade/pseuds/Unspeakable%20Crow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He felt silly thinking about it, but it seemed like a very important task; to ensure he could surprise Sherlock sometimes, and receive that slightly shy, a bit awkward smile of someone that never had someone to remember the little things about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quiet In Between

It was a thing of wonders, how quick they got comfortable with each other.

 

Everyone around him warned about Sherlock. How he was a dangerous person, not to be trusted. They talked about him as if he was the devil himself; like he was a contagious illness; people were afraid of him; hated him.

 

The detective didn't seem to mind all that. He looked like he enjoyed these insults and jabs as the highest compliment one could give him. He strode about in crimes scenes like he was a king, chin held up high, his voice a bored drawl.

 

But really, you would have to be especially stupid to not notice how lonely the man truly was. When John saw the skull on the mantelpiece, the comment it sparked didn't came from a feeling of disgust or uneasiness. It came from the realization that this mad, brilliant, completely amazing person was all by himself all the time, carrying the weight of being an adult on his thin shoulders without anyone there to try ease the burden.

 

And then Mycroft came along, and John had the nagging and heart wrenching feeling that Sherlock's childhood couldn't have been that much different. He took a moment to imagine how life must have been for him; the little child at the back of the room, watching everyone as they played; always excluded from the groups; always playing by himself.

 

John knew that the detective wasn't an easy person, far from it, but in the quiet moments between one case and the next, before the boredom kicked in, before the fingers on the top shelf in the fridge hold more appeal than the telly he never actually watched, Sherlock was different. He would sit in the sofa next to John with a book open on his lap, or a stash of newspapers he only looked for the crosswords or he would ask something about the doctor's past or about his tastes, and it never failed to surprise him how simple things could make Sherlock so happy; his favorite color, his favorite music, why he choose to be a doctor, his favorite constellation.

 

It was only after the question about the constellations that John realized that Sherlock never forgot something he said. Every little bit of information about his past, about his time in Afghanistan, about to how he took his coffee or how he liked his strawberry jam on holidays, everything he ever said, Sherlock committed to memory with the same care he had to the most interesting cases.

 

After that, John took to writing a journal on the detective. Not the blog, that everyone could read it. It was a paper journal he kept at the back of his wardrobe and wrote a new line everyday, and read it every morning. He felt silly thinking about it, but it seemed like a very important task; to ensure he could surprise Sherlock sometimes, and receive that slightly shy, a bit awkward smile of someone that never had someone to remember the little things about him; to buy that honey brand on the other side of the town just because it would make him happy.

 

John went above and beyond to do things to wrench a true smile out of Sherlock. He would deliver the morning tea even before the other thought about it, would handle the blue scarf over his shoulder when going out, would make a triple effort to see things the way Sherlock did, observing, not just seeing, would always have nicotine patches with him.

 

Sometimes he thought Sherlock didn't even noticed it.

 

But other times, he would look at those ever changing eyes and they would be warm with gratefulness, with acknowledgment, with a naked affection and hope that made John feel like the most lucky and loved man on earth. Sometimes he would wake from one of his nightmares to the sounds of his favorite violin piece, to clattering sound of life in the kitchen, to a mug of hot coffee on his nightstand. Other times, Sherlock would sit side by side with him, looking at the fire and hands barely touching between their chairs, humming a song with closed eyes.

 

They never needed to talk about it; and those moments were the happiest John ever felt.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I dont even have a excuse, besides having a thing for romantic and sappy john


End file.
